Dead Girl in 2A (ARC)

by Carter Wilson

  I reach into my back pocket and grab my wallet, then thumb for my license. Elle reaches for her purse, and for a split second I imagine her pulling a gun. Or mace. I can see it so clearly, this all ending badly in this mountain parking lot deep in the night. But it’s just a wallet she grabs.

  The cop on Elle’s side of the car looks at her license, and I suddenly wonder what name appears on it. Surely not L.

  He doesn’t ask for her registration. Instead, he calls out over the top of the car to his partner. “Whatcha got?”

  Three knuckled raps on my window. I lower it. I see the gun on his hip. Handcuffs. No nightstick. He reaches a hand inside.

  I give him my license.

  He clicks on a flashlight for the first time and studies my ID. Then, in a deep voice, he calls back over to his partner.

  “This is him.”

  This is him.

  Elle turns to me and whispers. “What did you do, Jake?”

  “Do? I didn’t do anything.”

  Elle’s cop leans in, and the first thing I notice is he doesn’t have a badge. No badge, no stitched name on his shirt. He’s maybe in his fifties, salt-and-pepper beard.

  “Stay in the car,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears, but not the guy on my side. My guy stays right where he was. It’s too dark for me to make him out, to see if he’s wearing a real uniform or not.

  The chill intensifies. I start to raise my window.

  “Keep it lowered.”

  I turn to Elle and speak as softly as I can.

  “They’re not police.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that vibe,” she says.

  “So, who are they?”

  “Find out soon enough.”

  The car is still running, the engine a low murmur. Elle’s right hand rests on top of the gearshift, and she drums her fingers, left to right. She reaches out and presses the button for the hazard lights. Lights flash. Clicking, like a metronome.

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  This lasts just shy of forever.

  Then.

  “Get out of the car.”

  Not Step out of the car, please.

  It’s the man on my side. He’s talking to me.

  “Get out of the car. Sir. Now.”

  Elle looks at me, and in her expression, I can see she’s just as confused as I am.

  I’m not seeing a lot of choices right now.

  I open my door. He backs up. I get out. There’s just enough ambient light to make out some distinct features. He’s younger than his partner. Shaggy hair. Beard.

  Not a cop. I know this as clearly as I know the number of stitches needed to sew up my daughter’s face.

  Without pause, I take a swing. Just like that, no logic, no hesitation, barely even consideration for the gun on his hip. I took boxing classes years ago, and though much of the training has long since left me, my balance is solid and my knuckles connect with the side of his head, a few precious inches above his jawline. He falters but doesn’t collapse, grabbing his face as he stumbles backward under the red hue of the swirling cruiser lights.

  This is not the me of a year ago. Then, I would have run through every scenario in my mind before taking such dramatic action, and then still probably wouldn’t have.

  But, fuck, it’s apparently who I am now and I’m going with it.

  I move in for a second strike, knowing I need to get the gun before he pulls it. I lunge, allowing my torso to be exposed while I twist toward the holster. But he doesn’t reach for his gun. Instead, he twists toward me, slamming his fist directly into my stomach.

  I’ve had the wind knocked out of me playing sports as a kid, but I’ve never experienced the sudden and shocking pain of a grown man’s fist pounded into my abdomen. The blow upsets my balance, and I fall hard on the scrabbled dirt of the shoulder.

  Another fist in my side, just under my ribs. More jarring than painful.

  He yanks my hands behind my back, then I feel the bite of plastic on my wrists. The unmistakable zooop of zip ties cinching into place, cutting into my skin.

  I twist my head back to the car. “Elle!” My scream is hardly more than a wheeze.

  I’m yanked to my feet, as easily as strings lifting a marionette. The older man has joined in, and each has one of my arms, their fingers pythoned around my biceps. The passenger door is still open, and all three of us are facing the inside of the car. The dome light casts a noirish glow on Elle, who watches the scene unfold.

  “You can go,” the older man tells Elle.

  She doesn’t move. Frozen. Watching. Deciding.

  “Go,” he says, louder this time.

  I lurch forward, managing to break from one of them for a moment, but the younger man holds firm. Seconds later, all four hands secure me even tighter than before.

  “Leave,” the older man barks at her. Then he kicks the car door closed, and any chance of further communication with Elle is gone.

  Instead of being shoved into a caged back seat of a police cruiser, they drag me to the back of an unmarked sedan and pop the trunk. I catch one glimpse of Elle’s car as I scream some of the worst profanities I can muster at the men cramming me into the tight, black space.

  Trunk closed. My breaths are heavy, which I can’t afford in the suffocating space. Are there air holes in trunks?

  I feel the car rumble awake, and my body pitches hard as the car jolts to the left.

  A U-turn.

  The only thing I know is we are headed east, away from the mountains.

  Back toward Denver.

  Thirty-Four

  Saturday, October 13

  I’m no longer in the trunk, but still captive.

  How long have I been in here?

  Eight hours? Ten?

  Can’t say for sure. They took my phone. My watch, my wallet.

  But it seems at least that long. And no one has come in through that door. No offer of water. Food. Not even a bucket to relieve myself in.

  Motherfuckers.

  Some undeterminable time ago, I pissed in the corner of the room like an animal. Afterward, I pounded on the door. Shouted a few choice words.

  But, nothing.

  Silence.

  I’ve paced the room and counted. Eight feet by ten feet. Bare white walls. Gray linoleum floor. Fluorescents raining harsh light from above, so bright that closing my eyes is barely a relief. Two aluminum chairs, facing each other. Nothing else.

  I tried to use the chairs to reach the ceiling, hoping for a way out. Couldn’t reach.

  One door, no windows.

  One vent, pumping unnecessary AC constantly. Has to be sixty degrees in here. I think the shivering is the worst part of all this. The constant shivering.

  When they put me in this room, removed the blindfold, and locked the door behind them, I sucked in a deep breath and assured myself someone would come in soon. After all, there are two chairs here. Someone wants to have a conversation.

  But no one’s coming.

  This isn’t jail or a federal detention center. This is someone’s shoebox, and I’m a memory to be stored and tucked in a closet. A flower petal, pressed between pages, crisping in death.

  I check in with my brain, giving myself a memory test.

  What’s your room number at the Four Seasons?

  The answer comes faster than I expect. Maybe five seconds.

  201

  A small victory, followed by a strained yawn.

  Fatigue pulls at me. They took me late at night, and I would normally have been asleep even before then. Now I sit against a wall, knees up to my chest, wrapped in my own arms, head down. I tried this earlier and fell asleep for a brief moment, but I soon fell over and jolted awake. I was tempted to stay there, fetal position, a ball on the floor. But somehow t
hat’s the surest sign of defeat, so I’m back to the wall again.

  Good thing I slept most of the day yesterday.

  I can’t get sucked into a whirlpool of panic. So I repeat a mantra, over and over, believing it with all my soul and despite all evidence to the contrary.

  I’m in control.

  Everything will be okay.

  I’m in control.

  Everything will be okay.

  I’m—

  Thirty-Five

  The door opens, as if they’ve sensed my final breaking point.

  One person enters.

  Landis.

  Landis and his stupid, fucking fedora.

  Tight smile, smug almost. Gray suit, sleek like sharkskin. Jacket buttoned. Black shoes, polished to an obsidian glaze. He’s carrying a plastic bottle of water.

  He walks in, shuts the door behind him. Someone on the other side locks us in.

  Landis says nothing as he hands me the water. This is where I’m supposed to refuse it, not playing the role of the pawn. But, no. I need it, so I take the bottle and down the contents in seconds, discarding the empty container to the floor.

  Landis unbuttons his jacket, takes a seat in one of the chairs. Looks left to right, as if there’s anything else to see in this room, then removes his hat and holds it in his lap.

  He says nothing, but I don’t fill in the silence.

  I stand, not wanting him to be above me. I have no idea if he has a gun inside that jacket. I’m not even sure if I could take him one-on-one. I’m bigger than him and in good shape, but he has the look of someone who can take care of himself. Carries himself loosely, like a boxer. But it doesn’t really matter. He wouldn’t have walked in here without a plan, were I to suddenly lunge at him.

  He clears his throat, says, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I don’t give him the outburst he likely wants. I’m counting that as a victory. The water already starts rumbling in my stomach, churning.

  “No problem,” I say. “I was appreciating the minimalist decor in here.”

  He looks to the corner of the room, to where I urinated.

  “Looks like you added a splash of color.”

  I shrug.

  “I asked to use the bathroom; no one answered.”

  “Again, apologies.”

  He wants me to ask what he wants, and I want to know the answer. But I keep silent. If I’m trying to get control, I have to start with this conversation.

  “I suppose you’re wondering if we intend to let you out of here.”

  We.

  “Well, Landis, seems you know everything about me. You shouldn’t have to suppose at all.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  He sits up a hair more, squares his shoulders.

  “Jake, the way this works is you do as I say. Now, I know you’re a man of intelligence. A man who has studied communication, probably knows how to use body and verbal language to gain power over situations. You might even think you can somehow talk your way out of here. But you’re also a man of emotion, of tremendous sensitivity. And, it seems, based on recent actions, a man prone to rash bursts of violence.”

  “It wasn’t rash. I was trying to protect myself from being exactly where I am now.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. My men tried to take it easy on you. How are your ribs?”

  “Just fine. I can handle a little pain.”

  “You may not fear a little pain, but I do know you fear something happening to your family.”

  The word family stabs me, but only for a second. There’s an energy to Landis I can read, maybe because of the program. His threats resonate as hollow. There’s a mask on him, a forced edge to his tone, as if he’s an actor playing a role he’s not fully prepared for. Still, I need to tread carefully here.

  “Please, Jake. Have a seat.”

  I think about what choices I have, and I count only one. I take a seat in the remaining metal chair. Back straight, hands on knees. The fatigue has left me, replaced by adrenaline.

  A wave of familiarity from Landis washes over me, just as it did the first time we met. Faint.

  I focus on him, saying nothing. Just focusing.

  There. As stone-faced as he is, I detect the faintest wave of desperation. Of some kind of longing.

  This could be a vulnerability.

  “You came to me nearly a year ago,” he finally says. “And I gave you a book. You’ve read it hundreds of times by now. Maybe thousands.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You told me you were a doctor. What do you really do? How do you have the time and money to fly around the country luring people into your weird psych experiments?”

  “I have outside funding for this,” he says. “As to what I do? Actually, I sell insurance. I’m on leave,” he says.

  “Most people go on vacation. Beach, Disney World, you know.” I jab an index finger in his direction. “Though I gotta say you don’t strike me as the Disney type. Nah, can’t picture that at all.”

  He doesn’t get pulled in by anything I say.

  “I gave you a book, and I gave you pills,” he continues. “You probably thought about throwing the pills away, but you kept them, didn’t you? Surely you didn’t plan on taking them… What sane person would just ingest some little blue tablets given to them by a stranger? But the book made you start thinking things. Feeling things.”

  He leans forward a few degrees. His face isn’t menacing. If anything, it’s full of boyish wonder, as if he’s looking down at the first flower he himself ever grew.

  “You knew then, right?” he continues. “After feeling what the book was doing to you, you took a pill. Because at that point you believed in me. Not trusted me, but believed in me.”

  “Let me out of here,” I say.

  “No. Not yet. I will, but not yet. I just want to chat, Jake. That’s all.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You have confidence. You can thank me for that. Thank the program.”

  “Fuck the program.”

  “Oh, is that how you feel?” An eyebrow delicately arched. “So you haven’t been taking the pills?”

  “I have,” I admit. “But it wasn’t because I believed in you.”

  “What then?”

  I swallow, suddenly craving more water. “It was desperation.”

  His eyes narrow for a second before widening in understanding.

  “Your daughter. The car accident.”

  “Yeah. The accident.”

  “Interesting. The accident drove you to taking the pills.”

  “And if I didn’t remember so clearly how it was completely my fault, I’d think maybe you caused the accident just to get me where I am.”

  Landis shakes his head. “No, Jake. I’m not a monster. So you took the pills, kept reading the book, felt the changes. The program is working for you.”

  “Yeah? And this is part of the program? Throwing me in here for hours? How exactly is that supposed to help me?”

  “It might not help at all,” he answers. “But I believe shocks to the system may help at your point in the program. But I don’t have all the answers. I actually don’t know much more than you.”

  “Look,” I say, staring directly into his unblinking eyes. “When you first gave me that bullshit about a clinical study, I bought into it because some things you said rang true. So, yeah, I looked at the book, and it was a head trip. Literally. Started to think maybe you were actually on to something. I had no intention of taking the pills until I hit rock bottom after the accident, and even then I was probably driven more by whiskey than reason. But your doctor act was convincing enough to get me to take them, I suppose. Did I start to feel more of a change in my emotions? My perception of my potential? Yeah, I suppose I did. But I also started losing my sho
rt-term memory. Maybe that’s just what happens when you take psychotropic drugs.”

  “They aren’t just psychotropic drugs,” he says. “They—”

  “But now,” I say, cutting him off. “Now you’ve had me abducted. Beaten by your thugs, thrown into a car, and kept here against my will. So when I get out of here—and I will get out of here—I’m going to the police and making sure they find and arrest your ass.”

  “The program is working, Jake.” He doesn’t seem to have heard a word I said. “And it only works because of who you are. You’re one of only a few. People without pasts. People who always had a twitch in their soul, who knew they weren’t quite normal. Always expected they were destined for something more than how they ended up, because once upon a time you started the program but never finished it. It’s been slowly burning inside you for years, and I’m here to stoke those flames.”

  “What…the fuck…are you talking about?”

  His eyes grow a smidge wider. “I told you last year I’d come back to ask you a question, so I’m going to do that now. Is that okay with you?”

  Of all the things giving me fear in this room, his asking me permission for something is probably the greatest.

  My silence is apparently good enough for him.

  Landis stands, takes a step toward me, and lowers his hand onto my shoulder. No rings, no watch. His bare hand, bony knuckles. A light squeeze, as if he’s consoling me.

  He looks down, and it’s all I can do to hold his gaze. I don’t want to look away, because that feels like some kind of defeat.

  “Was it you, Jake?”

  What?

  He pauses a few seconds, leans down, searching my eyes, as if there’s some secret just beneath my surface and he might just be able to catch it in the right light.

  “Was it you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His hand squeezes harder. Leans in more, eyes wider. He suddenly seems more familiar than ever.

  “Was…it…you?”

  “Was what me?”

  I’m waiting for him to ask me the question again, but he doesn’t. He’s locked in tight, focused intently on my eyes, looking for a tell, a giveaway, some proof I’m lying. But I can’t be lying when I don’t even understand what he’s talking about.